


better now, having survived

by grimmyneutron



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Canon Compliant - Hunger Games, F/M, Hunger Games AU, I'm Sorry, Slow Burn, Vignettes, this is an on fire garbage can, you know i had to do it to them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-10-25 22:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17733443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimmyneutron/pseuds/grimmyneutron
Summary: He reaches across the space between them and rests his hand on her knee. “If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you.”Her lip trembles, but she has had too many private breakdowns since the Games to lose it in front of a fellow victor, in front of Bellamy. “I don’t think you have the authority to offer that.”-Or, Bellamy and Clarke are victors struggling to regain their humanity and bring down the Capitol.





	better now, having survived

**Author's Note:**

> So this is a dump I've been writing for a while. If you're here to yell at me to update my werewolf AU, I hear you, and I also hate me for not being able to write that story more quickly. 
> 
> This is written in a vignette style and will eventually become THG canon compliant. It will be 2-3 parts. As always, your feedback and encouragement fuels my insanity and will to write. Thank u :)

**The 66** **th** **Games**

Funnily enough, all Bellamy can think about as Octavia clings to him, screaming, sobbing, tearing at his shirt, is that her dress collar is wrinkled. He told her to iron it at least ten times this morning, but she’d been too busy braiding and re-braiding her hair to impress Atom. She told him to stop babying her.

He glances down at her now, perhaps for the last time, and even crying, she does not resemble a child. Her face has matured, her eyes carry a fire that is beyond her fourteen years. For a moment, he makes peace with it all — she’ll be fine without him, even if she can’t see it right now.

“Bell,” She sobs, clawing at his chest. “Come back to me, _please_. Promise me.”

“Love you, O,” He says quietly, instead of promising anything, pressing a kiss into her hair. She smells like peppermint, from the soap she insisted on buying just a week ago at the market. He inhales and tries to memorize the scent.

The peacekeepers grab for him, to separate them, and Bellamy does not resist. He walks on stiff legs towards the stage and takes his place next to a pretty girl named Roma. He recognizes her from his school days. She’s sixteen and sells her whittling projects on the weekends in the town square. She is crying silently and does not look at him. He wonders if he should hold her hand or pat her on the back. He does neither.

“Ladies and gentlemen, your District 7 tributes for the 66th annual Hunger Games!”

 

* * *

 

Roma ignores his few meager attempts at conversation, so he quickly gives up. Their mentor is also silent throughout introductions, strung out and sweaty. Even as a victor the man looks out of place in the lavish Capitol train car, too dirty, a smudge on the pristine glass. Bellamy tries hard not to hate him. He fails.

He spends most of the train ride attempting to come to grips with death. The concept of nothingness should terrify him, but now, when it looms so closely, he can’t bring himself to become afraid. He also entertains the thought of winning; he’s pretty decent with an axe, and he’s bigger than most of the guys his age at the lumberyard.

He glances at Roma, who has her eyes closed but is breathing too irregularly to actually be sleeping. She is small and lean, and he imagines trying to kill her. He can’t, and goes back to contemplating his impending death.

In the Capitol, their apartment is even grander than the train, and the bed in Bellamy’s room is bigger than his entire house back home. He wants to call O and laugh with her about the extravagance that is beyond their wildest dreams. He climbs into the giant bed, too large and too empty to feel even remotely comfortable.

After tossing and turning in the bed for what seems like hours, he slips out of his room.

Their mentor is passed out on the couch, probably too high to even make it back to his own quarters. Bellamy, an experienced pick-pocketer, finds a pack of cigarettes tucked into the man’s breast pocket. He attempts to slip out onto the balcony, but the sliding glass door is sealed shut.

Frustrated, he flings the cigarettes across the apartment and storms back to his room. Of course the Capitol wouldn’t want their precious tributes anywhere near a ten-story balcony where they might contemplate flinging themselves to an early, easy death.

He lies awake in bed until the sun creeps between the skyscrapers and illuminates his room. A Capitol attendant wakes him, and says it’s time for the interviews.

His stylist’s name is Jessa, and she has tiny diamonds implanted just below the crest of her eyebrows. Pale blue lips match her pale blue hair. She looks as though she has been completely frostbitten.

“I’ve never worked with District 7,” She chatters as she applies aftershave to his freshly cleaned face. “Do you like it there? Are there a lot of trees?”

Bellamy looks at her incredulously, but she doesn’t seem to get the hint. “Yes,” He grumbles finally, tired of her big doe eyes staring at him. “There are a lot of trees.”

 

* * *

 

A hand clamps down on his shoulder just before he walks on stage. Haymitch’s breath is stale and yeasty, and it tickles Bellamy’s face. “What’s your plan out there, kid?” He slurs.

Bellamy would laugh if he weren’t so nervous. “I don’t have one.”

“Figures… fuckin’ Farrow can’t string two words together,” Haymitch grunts. The hand on Bellamy’s shoulder tightens, and Haymitch pulls him closer. “Don’t brood. Have a sob story. You got a sob story?”

Bellamy swallows tightly. “Yes.”

“Good, good. Use it. Win the crowd over. Get yourself some sponsors. And smile a little.”

He turns fully to look down at Haymitch, who is a lot shorter than Bellamy expected him to be. “Why are you helping me?”

The victor rocks back on his heels. “Just trying to make the Games… interesting.”

As if in goodbye, Haymitch hiccups.

Bellamy watches as the drunkard stumbles away, and then an attendant ushers him onto the stage. The lights are so blinding he can barely make out the audience. He shakes Caesar’s hand numbly and sits down without saying a word.

“You okay there, Bellamy?” Caesar grins.

Bellamy remembers what Haymitch said to him. He has never been the brooding type, so he lets his lips curl up in what he hopes is a bashful smile. “Sorry, Caesar. Just a bit of stage fright, but I s’pose that’ll fade real fast.”

Caesar laughs along with the audience. “It certainly will.”

“So, Bellamy, who’s back home rooting for you?”

“My younger sister,” He says. Caesar simply looks at him, so he feels compelled to continue. “Although knowing her, she’s probably placing bets against me.”

That earns a laugh from the crowd and Caesar claps delightedly. “I’m sure that isn’t true. Who else besides your sister?”

_Have a sob story._

Bellamy swallows. “No one.”

“Not your mother or father?” Caesar says with a furrowed brow.

“No, they’re both dead. My sister is all I have,” He pauses to wipe at a surprisingly real tear beading in the corner of his eye. “I… I’m all she has, too. I just want to make it back home to her.”

The crowd audibly _awww’s_ , and Caesar slaps a hand to his heart.

“Well, Bellamy, I sincerely hope you do.”

 

* * *

 

“Good luck.”

Bellamy looks up, unable to hide his shock. It is the first utterance he has heard from Roma since they were reaped. “Thank – uh, thanks,” He stutters. “You too.”

She smiles slightly and disappears down the hallway with two peacekeepers.

A second pair of peacekeepers is waiting for him, and they escort him down the same hallway to what is most likely going to be his death.

 

* * *

 

Everything is bright, blinding, and _warm._ Bellamy instantly feels suffocated by the wet, hot air that hits his face. His eyes adjust and he sees he’s in a jungle. A hot, muggy, wet jungle. The cornucopia looms large and golden in the center of the circle of tributes.

The Games begin immediately, and Bellamy finds himself sprinting for the cornucopia. He needs a weapon, but not just any weapon: an axe. He is one of the first to reach the cornucopia, but once he steps inside, he sees a career from District 1 rifling through bags. The career, Vector, is sixteen but looks about thirty. Bellamy remembers he scored a 10 on his skills exam.

That’s when he sees the axe. It’s hanging on the wall, right next to several swords and knives. Bellamy hears footsteps approaching and rushes towards the wall. He jams a knife into his belt, yanks the axe from its hook and turns to exit the cornucopia.

He comes face to face with a boy from District 5 who’s pointing a sword at Bellamy with shaking hands. “Wait!” Bellamy says right as the kid rushes forward with the sword pointed right at Bellamy’s chest. Bellamy ducks out of the way and without hesitating, swings his axe into the boy’s neck.

Blood sprays and the boy falls to the ground. Distantly, a cannon goes off. Bellamy is vibrating with adrenaline when he pulls the bloody axe from the corpse of a boy no older than Octavia. He turns to leave and physically runs into another boy, dark skinned with a shaved head. The axe falls from his hands, and he scrambles backwards to grab it. But as he turns to swing, the kid holds up his hands and moves past Bellamy.

He takes it as a temporary truce and runs from the cornucopia, dodging a spear aimed at his chest. More cannon fire.

Once he reaches the tree line, just a mere fifty yards from the cornucopia, he falls to his knees and heaves. Nothing comes up, of course, because he’d been too anxious to eat that morning. He wipes sweat from his face and sees blood smeared on his hand, but it’s not his. He heaves again.

“Get up,” A voice says, too close for comfort.

Bellamy whips around with the axe raised, but the kid standing in front of him is the one from the cornucopia.

“Whoa,” The guy says. “Wait. I’m Nathan, I’m from Eleven, I have a family, I like card games. Please, don’t kill me.”

Bellamy lowers the axe and gets to his feet. Nathan is short but sturdy, with a shaved head and dark skin. He also has a backpack, which Bellamy knows is full of food and supplies.

“I’m Bellamy. District 7,” He says. “What’s with the fast facts?”

Nathan smiles. “I heard if you tell someone details about yourself, it humanizes you. Makes it harder for the person to kill you.”

“Right,” Bellamy says skeptically.

“Hey, it stopped you, didn’t it?” Nathan shrugs. “Anyway, thanks for, you know, not stabbing me back there.”

A surprised laugh bubbles up out of Bellamy’s throat. “Sure.”

They both fall silent for a moment, and then Nathan asks, “What do we do now?”

Bellamy turns and surveys the bloodbath that became the cornucopia. He sees a group of Careers, led by Vector, chasing a girl into the trees a little ways away. Once the Careers disappear into the jungle, it becomes eerily quiet.

He looks at Nathan, his new, temporary friend, and does not have an answer.

 

* * *

 

There are thirteen tributes left, and Bellamy has killed another person. This time, a girl named Genesis from District 2. He and Nathan had stumbled upon her near a small pond. Genesis had been laughing maniacally, her spear planted in the stomach of another girl. _Roma._

Bellamy’s axe left his hand before he even had a chance to think. It landed squarely and firmly in Genesis’ back, and she stopped laughing. She turned around, and he saw she’d been crying. He watched her fall to the ground, and after a pause, a cannon sounded.

Now, he’s kneeling next to Roma, who isn’t dead but definitely isn’t going to live much longer. She’s sobbing, her whole body jerking violently, and she coughs up blood. “I’m sorry,” He says, brushing her hair away from her pale, sweaty face. “I’m so sorry.”

“I want my mom,” She cries softly, choking out blood. “I wanna go home.”

“I’m sorry,” Bellamy repeats, because it’s all he can think to say. He looks up at Nathan. “We should,” He swallows thickly, “We should help her.”

Nathan nods and pulls out a hunting knife. He extends it to Bellamy, who shakes his head, stroking Roma’s matted hair. Bellamy blinks back tears and thinks of home, of Roma’s gentle smile and her easy laugh, of Octavia probably watching him right now.

Nathan seems to understand, because he presses the knife into the side of Roma’s neck, turning her cries into gurgles while Bellamy holds her. Almost instantly, Roma stills, her eyes staring blankly at the rainforest canopy.

Bellamy strokes her hair for just a little while longer, and when the cannon sounds, he falls back off his knees and takes a shuddering breath. Eleven tributes left. He glances quickly at Nathan, who is already looking at him with an unreadable expression.

“Are we enemies yet?” He asks hesitantly.

Nathan steels him with a serious gaze. “Not a chance.”

 

* * *

 

Nathan is his friend now, Bellamy thinks, at least for the time being. They spend the next two nights hiding out, listening to the count of the cannons, the faces in the sky. Roma’s appears on the first night, and Bellamy looks away.

“She was your friend?” Nathan asks as Roma’s face fades and another child’s replaces it.

“No,” Bellamy says. “She was…” He trailed off, unsure.

“From home,” Nathan finished for him, nodding in understanding. “What’s Seven like?”

“There are a lot of trees,” Bellamy says flatly.

“Yeah, no shit,” Nathan snorts. “Your sister. You said you had one. What’s she like?”

Bellamy closes his eyes, envisioning Octavia in their house, dancing around the kitchen table with flour on her face and in her hair. In the woods, near the stream, kicking up water at him as she waded through the shallows. In her room, her face red and her eyes burning as she yelled at him because he _again_ turned away the boy from down the road who’d come calling.

He smiles. “She’s… wild. Always has been. Loves to laugh and play pranks. She always, always wins a fight. Especially against me.”

Nathan smiles too. “She sounds badass.”

"She is,” Bellamy replies, and misses his sister an agonizing amount.

 

* * *

 

There are five tributes left, and Nathan is dying. He is dying, and Bellamy can’t stop it. He presses harder into the gaping hole in Nathan’s side, but blood flows quickly between his fingers. Bellamy’s own shoulder is absolutely shredded from an arrow that he’d yanked out in a blind frenzy when the Careers had attacked them.

“It’s not looking good,” Nathan chokes out.

Bellamy laughs, but the sound comes out strangled and sounds like a sob. “You’re gonna be okay.”

“T-tell my dad,” Nathan coughs, blood spewing from his mouth. “Tell my dad I did my best.”

“Stop,” Bellamy says, pressing firmer into the wound, ignoring the searing pain as his shoulder protested. “Don’t do that. We’re gonna get out of here.”

“Not we,” Nathan says, raising a trembling hand to poke at Bellamy’s chest. “ _You._ ”

“Stop.”

“Thanks for not killing me,” He says, smiling with blood-soaked teeth. “Tell Octavia… I wish I could’ve met her. We’d get along.”

“You would,” Bellamy says eagerly, grabbing and squeezing Nathan’s hand.

The boy nods, shudders, and stills. His hand slackens in Bellamy’s grip, and Bellamy raises two fingers to draw his eyes closed.

 

* * *

 

There are two tributes left, and Bellamy is one of them. He’s got a gash in his leg from one of the Career’s knives, but he still runs as fast as he can from vines that just moments earlier came alive, grabbing at him at every possible second.

He swings his axe blindly behind him with his good arm, trying to ward off the terrifying mutation the Gamemakers have created. They’re driving him to the cornucopia, he knows. Somewhere, Vector is being chased as well. He’s the only remaining tribute, and Bellamy will have to kill him.

They come face-to-face just feet from the cornucopia, and Vector is somehow unarmed. _Good,_ Bellamy thinks. _Let it be quick._

Once he’s close enough, he flings his axe. It sails through the air, poised for Vector’s chest. But Vector isn’t some boy from District 5, or a girl caught off guard. He is ready, and he ducks, charges full force at Bellamy and knocks him to the ground.

They wrestle, and despite Vector’s combat training, they are pretty evenly matched. Still, Bellamy takes four hits to the face, and blood gushes into his eye from a split brow. He can’t see, with the blood blurring his vision, and Vector is still pummeling.

Finally, finally, Bellamy manages to throw Vector off him and scrambles to sit up. He straddles the Career, gets a hold of his neck and _squeezes._

“ _Please,_ ” Vector wheezes, bucking his hips up to throw Bellamy off him, grappling against Bellamy’s hands. He swings for Bellamy’s face, but Bellamy has always had long arms. _Orangutan man,_ Octavia used to call him. The swing misses by several inches.

Bellamy does not flinch. He watches Vector’s face turn red, feels his pulse beat erratically beneath his hands. Blood drips from his eyebrow and spatters Vector’s face as the boy continues wheezing and pleading.

Soon, Vector stops struggling so much. He eventually goes unconscious, but Bellamy does not stop squeezing. The cannon sounds, but Bellamy doesn’t let up. Somewhere, a hovercraft lands, but he only clenches his hands harder. Something pricks his neck, and the world goes dark.

 

* * *

 

 **The 68** **th**   **Games**

Clarke should be surprised when her name is called. She is the widowed mayor’s daughter, District One’s princess. For a moment, she believes somebody will volunteer for her. But she sees the hatred in Lexa’s eyes; Lexa, who has trained her whole life for the games, who planned to volunteer and _win._ She watches with a cold, hard indifference as Clarke walks up to the stage.

There are murmurs from the crowd. No one is going to save her.

They call the boys’ next, and it’s a Career, Byron. Clarke trained with him once, and dread creeps up the skin of her neck; she will not win against him. He pumps his fist in the air triumphantly, as if he’s already won (as if Clarke is already dead), and everyone cheers. The cheers die quickly though, when somebody races forward.

“I volunteer!”

_Wells._

Clarke’s head swims as he approaches the stage. She knows he’s looking at her, but she can’t bring herself to meet his gaze, not when he just signed both their death certificates.

“Oh, my,” Lulu (yellow hair, cat eyes, 6-inch eyelashes; Clarke hates her) says into the microphone as the crowd again murmurs. “How special!”

Byron looks furious, then immediately relieved. He will not win these Games, but there’s always next year. He shakes Wells’ hand and descends into the crowd, to his weeping mother and disappointed father.

She finally turns to look at Wells as Lulu introduces them as tributes.

“Clarke,” He says quietly.

“I hate you,” She spits, and means it.

“It is my honor to present your District One tributes for the 68th annual Hunger Games!”

 

* * *

 

“You can win,” Her mother says as she paces inside the city hall. “You have some training. You can shoot a bow & arrow. You can throw a knife.”

“Not well,” Clarke snorts.

Abby Griffin whirls on her daughter, sneering, “Do you want to die?”

Clarke levels her with a hard glare. “It’d be awfully convenient for you.”

Abby raises her hand as if to strike her, but she lowers it and smooths the front of her dress. “You’re smart. You can win. Good luck.” The last two words come out jilted, awkward.

Clarke nods.

Abby gives Clarke one last long look, touches her shoulder, and leaves.

Clarke is grateful her mother did not try to hug her. It’s better this way, more honest. At least she can go to her death knowing her last conversation with her mother was the most sincere one they’ve had in years.

 

* * *

 

Marcus Kane is more genuine than Clarke expected. He looks sad when he shakes her hand on the train. She’s not an idiot; she knows he comes to her house late at night. She has seen him leave her mother’s bedroom in the early hours of the morning more than once. (For someone sleeping with her mom, he is surprisingly not awful).

Augustus Braun, for his part, is exactly as handsome and brutish as she expected. He seems to be constantly flexing under his shirt. He was a favorite last year to win from the get-go, and her district still celebrates him at any given opportunity. He is surprisingly calm and composed for being a first time mentor.

“We haven’t had two non-career tributes in a long time,” Marcus says. Augustus nods. “It’s... rather unprecedented.”

Clarke does not even bother to glance at Wells for fear she might kill him right here before the Games even start.

“I’m here to help Clarke win,” Wells says, and she can feel him staring at her.

She rolls her eyes. “Martyring yourself won’t bring back my father.”

“Can we talk, Clarke?” Wells touches her elbow hesitantly, glancing awkwardly at Kane and Augustus’ surprised expressions.

She jerks her arm away from him and stands up to leave. “Not a chance.”

 

* * *

 

Bellamy stares at his two new tributes and tries not to see children. Last year, his tributes were twelve and thirteen. _Children._ Luis was slaughtered in the first standoff at the cornucopia. Charlotte managed to hang on until that night. They were both dead within the first twelve hours of the Games, and Bellamy had hurled into the toilet.

_“I know it’s a bit cliché, but it does get better,” A voice said through the bathroom door._

_Bellamy stumbled to his feet and wrenched open the door. Finnick Odair leaned against the doorway, extending a towel and a glass of sparkling water._

_“I love a good cliché,” Finnick said with his trademark grin. He stuffed the water and towel into Bellamy’s hands._

_“Thanks,” He replied numbly._

_“You had a rough first year,” Finnick continued. “It’s easier when they aren’t so… young.”_

_“They’re all young,” Bellamy said._ We’re young, _he thought to himself._

_Finnick pinned him with a strange, contemplative look. “Yeah, so are we,” He agreed, as if Bellamy had spoken out loud._

Bellamy blinks and his co-mentor, Farrow, completely inebriated on the couch across the train car. Every once in a while, he snores or mumbles something, and the male tribute, Henry, jumps each time. He’s twelve, and has the chubby face of a child. Anya is different. She’s fifteen, with an obvious chip on her shoulder and a constant steely expression.

“Your best bet is to stay hidden,” He says thickly, repeating the advice he’d given the other two last year.

Henry blinks at him, startled that he finally spoke. “How?”

“The other tributes will be bigger than you, older than you,” Bellamy continues. “You can’t physically defeat them. When the gun goes off, run.”

“To the cornucopia?” Henry asks. His voice is high and childlike, and it cracks on the last word. He is awkward, gangly and stretched too long but still round in the face; in the throws of pre-pubescence. Bellamy’s chest aches looking at him.

“No,” He replies. “The opposite. The cornucopia is always the first bloodbath. Weapons aren’t worth your life. Run as fast and as far as possible. Climb a tree, find a cave, _anything._ Just hide.”

Henry nods obediently.

Anya appears less than convinced. She stays silent, and Bellamy admits to himself that he wouldn’t be entirely surprised if she wins.

 

* * *

 

Clarke dislikes her stylist, who dresses her in what is essentially a ball gown. She walks down the long hallway backstage, passing the other tributes. Some of them look like children. They _are_ children.

She bumps into a man and opens her mouth to tell him to watch it, but when he turns around she realizes it’s Bellamy Blake, most recent victor of the Games.

“Sorry,” She says without much sincerity.

He gives her a quick once-over and smirks. “No worries, princess.”

She scowls and trudges onstage, plastering an angelic grin on her face.

Caesar beams at her. “You look like a true princess, Miss Griffin.”

She smiles at him, remembering what Marcus had told her about being charming. “That must make you my knight in shining velvet, Caesar.”

Caesar cackles as the audience roars with laughter, smoothing his velvet suit jacket. “Yes, indeed. But I’m sure a beautiful young woman like yourself has _many_ knights pursuing her.”

Clarke playfully slaps his arm. “You’re certainly cheeky today. You know a lady never tells.”

“You have no one at home? No one you want to win for?”

She smiles, hoping it seems genuine. _Don’t be afraid to lie,_ Marcus said. _In fact, I encourage it_.

“I want to win for my mother. We’re all each other has.”

The audience coos, and Caesar asks, “Your father?”

She blinks back surprisingly real tears. “He’s dead. I want to honor his memory by winning and coming home to my mother.”

Caesar wipes his own dry eyes. “My, my, you certainly are one brave young lady. We wish you the best of luck.”

The audience applauds her as she blows kisses after a tight hug from Caesar. She exits the stage after one last wave, and Bellamy Blake is waiting for her, arms crossed across his chest as he leans against a curtain rod.

He uncrosses his arms to give her a few soft claps. “A princess _and_ an actress.”

She glares at him. “I’m just doing the same as everybody else. You don’t know me.”

He shrugs and says nothing, a strange expression on his face that she can’t quite place, and she feels his eyes on her until she turns the corner.

 

* * *

 

Clarke pays the peacekeeper a wad of bills she’d tucked in her bra before leaving One in exchange for cigarettes and access to the roof. He is hesitant, and for a minute she worries she’s screwed, but he relents and they trade. She has zero intention of jumping off the building or whatever he’s worried about, although she supposes that’s not a bad plan. It’d just be speeding up the inevitable.

She sits on the rooftop ledge, her feet dangling over the side of the building, twenty-two stories up, and tears open the pack of cigarettes. As she tucks one into her mouth, she fumbles for a lighter, and…

“Shit,” She says audibly, realizing she asked for cigs but not something to light them with. Angrily, she tosses the pack over her shoulder.

“Need a light?” A voice says, and she almost topples off the roof to her death.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy manages to catch the back collar of her shirt and tug, so that she remains seated.

“What the hell?” The girl says around the cigarette in her mouth, whirling on him.

He laughs, genuinely, which is new for him. “Sorry.” He tosses the pack of cigarettes and a lighter down onto the wide ledge beside her thigh.

“Thanks,” She grumbles and lights her cigarette.

He hadn’t expected anyone to be up here, especially a tribute, especially _this_ tribute. As a victor, he finally got the privilege to roam mostly anywhere he wants within the Capitol, but he supposes wealthy tributes could certain perks too.

“How’d you get up here?”

“What’s it to you?” She challenges, looking up at him once more with less malice in her eyes this time.

He shrugs. “I’m Bellamy, by the way. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I know who you are,” She says. “Everyone does.”

“Yeah,” He says dumbly because she’s right. His face is everywhere. He hates it.

“Clarke,” She says. “District One. The princess, remember?”

“I remember,” He says honestly. If he’s even more honest, he’ll admit he hasn’t stopped thinking about her since the interviews early that evening. Nobody has ever scowled at him as fiercely as she did, even Octavia.

“Are you going to sit, or…?”

He leans forward to peer over the edge of the building, and the city below him spins. “Not a fan of heights,” He says as he leans back, rocking on his heels.

She smiles at him. “I’ll catch you if you fall. It’ll make us even.”

He snorts, sure she would happily watch him tumble to his death. Instead, he sits down on the ledge where she patted the concrete, and she offers him a cigarette. He takes it and she lights it for him.

“Thanks.”

She makes a small noise in response, staring out at the Capitol.

“This can’t be much different than One,” Bellamy says after a moment, gesturing out at the city.

Clarke shakes her head. “Believe me, it is. I used to live here. My dad was a member of Snow’s council. Then he just up and quit one day, and we moved to One. I don’t think my mom ever forgave him.”

“In the interview you said he was dead,” Bellamy points out.

“He is,” She says.

“Sorry,” He replies, and means it. He knows loss too, but he doesn’t feel the need to share it at this particular moment.

“I think he was murdered,” She says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Bellamy feels his eyebrows shoot up. “By who?”

Clarke gazes down upon the city, towards city hall gleaming in all its glory. “I’m not sure.”

She continues before he can respond. “Wells, who came here with me, I think he turned my dad into the authorities for something he didn’t do. Accused him of not supporting the Games, which, it just isn’t true. He went to work one day, and they found his body in an alley that night. The peacekeepers refused to release an autopsy.”

He really doesn’t know how to respond to the bomb she just dropped. He’s heard mentions of rebellion, of backlash towards the Games, and even rumors that District Thirteen still exists. He isn’t stupid enough to dispel them as just rumors, but he has to ignore them. The Capitol watches him 24/7.

“I wonder if I was even reaped by chance,” She says quietly. “Or if it was all planned.”

“You should watch what you say,” He warns. The last thing he wants is for the Capitol to overhear their conversation and use it against her in the Games.

She bristles, clearly thinking he’s another ear for the Capitol. He wishes he could tell her the truth, that something is brewing, that the districts are restless. He settles for silence. They smoke through the rest of the cigarettes.

"What's it like?" She asks after a while, her face illuminated by the city lights. She really is beautiful; he can’t begin to imagine her blood-soaked and murderous. "Killing someone?"

He pauses, thinks about all the blood on his hands he'll never be able to wash off. "Wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.” His voice is thick as Nathan’s face, Roma’s, Genesis, and so many others play on a loop like an old film.

She touches his hand, so gentle and quick that he’s sure he imagined it.

 

* * *

 

Clarke adjusts the silver jacket her stylist shoved on her. She guesses the arena climate will be cold, given the thermal shirt and the thick, sturdy boots lined with wool. She briefly recalls the Games where everyone froze to death on a barren tundra.

She climbs into the elevator, surrounded by glass. Her stylist waves at her with a thumbs-up, and if she could swallow the massive lump in her throat, she would have laughed.

The elevator moves, lifting her up towards the ceiling, which retracts, and cold wind stings her face. The countdown begins as the elevator pushes her into brisk, open air. She shivers and blinks against the sunlight, trying to assess her surroundings as quickly as possible.

A tundra surrounds them, bordered by a snow-covered alpine forest. An icy river floats by to her left. She recognizes the tributes on either side of her; one is from Twelve and the other from Four. Ahead of her is the cornucopia, white marble nearly blending in with the surrounding landscape.

 _Stay away from the cornucopia,_ Marcus’ voice echoes in her ear.

Yeah, right _._ She needs a weapon. Bellamy told her as much last night while they talked. A couple knives or a bow will do. He’d suggested an axe, but she laughed in his face; she has never touched an axe in her life.

The horn blares, she steps off the platform and falls directly on her ass. _Ice._ She sees that several other tributes are on the ground too, but she’s up and moving before a lot of her competitors. She navigates carefully through the snow, avoiding slick spots.

She makes it to the cornucopia at the same time as a girl from Eight. They look at each other, weaponless, panting, and Clarke sprints past her to the wall, grabbing the bow and quiver of arrows and two large hunting knives. She turns to leave and sees Eight poised with a spear over a boy from Seven. The boy can’t be older than thirteen. He’s crying.

The knife leaves her hand before she can contemplate it. It lands squarely in Eight’s back. The girl gasps, drops the spear and collapses onto the boy from Seven.

Clarke grabs her knife, rolls the body off the boy, and pulls him to his feet. “Come _on,_ ” She says when he fails to follow her. Part of her wants to leave him, but he looks so out of place that she knows she would be responsible for his death if she did.

“Thank you,” He pants weakly as they run and slide across the ice.

“Go!” Clarke shouts, impatient. She nocks an arrow and shoots the boy from Four who comes at them from her left. He falls.

They make it to the tree line, and that’s when Clarke hears Wells shout in pain.

“Don’t move,” She says to Seven, shoving him into the spindly branches of a spruce tree. “I’ll be right back.”

She sneaks through the trees, nocks an arrow, searching, waiting. She walks a hundred feet, a hundred more, and then she sees them. Wells and Napoli, a Career from District Four, wrestling, too tangled in each other for her to get a clear shot. She’s not even that sharp of a shooter, so the risk of her hitting Wells is high.

Wells manages to leverage his knee and throws Napoli off him. Clarke fires her arrow the second the Career is clear of Wells. The arrow lands in his side, which all things considered is pretty lucky. He cries out, immediately looking around until his eyes find Clarke. She fires again, sending another into his left shoulder. Napoli falls.

She steps into the small clearing, a knife in her hand. “Wells, pull the arrow out.”

“But, he’ll bleed—“

“ _Wells,_ ” She all but snaps.

Wells looks sick as he yanks the arrow out of Napoli’s abdomen. The Career shouts in agony. Blood gushes forth, too much, too fast.

Clarke takes the arrow from Wells, plunges it back into Napoli’s throat, and twists. He makes an awful, animalistic sound of pain that is soon drowned by blood.

“Let’s go,” She says, and Wells follows her.  

“This way,” She pants, leading him to where she’d hidden Seven. She stops short when she sees his body sprawled on the ground, his neck bent at a terrible angle. His eyes stare at the treetops, unseeing.

“No,” She breathes. “No, no, no.”

“Clarke,” Wells says gently. “He’s dead.”

“How?” She gasps, now frantically scanning their surroundings.

“Breathe, Clarke. It was probably the other Careers.”

She kneels down next to his body and tries to close his eyes. It takes a few tries; the movies always made it look so easy.

“His name was Henry,” Wells says softly.

“Henry,” She says his name for the first time, for the only time. “I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke keeps track of the people she’s killed: three. Four if she counts Henry, which she does. It’s only the first day. There are seventeen tributes left for the second day. She and Wells don’t speak; they just walk, hiding from other tributes they come across.

After the eighteenth hour of silence, Wells cracks. “I know you blame me.”

“Yeah, I do.” No point in lying to him.

“I would never do that to you,” He says. “I love you, Clarke, and I would never do anything to hurt you.”

“Well, you did,” She snaps. She is careful, not with her tone, but with her words. They’re on live television after all, surrounded by surveillance, and at the mercy of the gamemakers and President Snow. If she breathes a word of her father’s death, she can kiss her chances of winning goodbye.

“He’s gone because of you,” She says after a moment.

“It wasn’t me,” He says.

She scoffs. “Then, who?”

Wells is silent.

She looks at him then, and his eyes are filled with a knowing sort of sympathy, as if he holds some truth like a burden. Dread presses down, heavy in her chest and constricting her throat. He knows, then, who is responsible for her father’s death.

Her mind races as memories resurface in a flurry of panic. Her father, arguing in hushed tones over the phone, slipping a piece of paper inside the morning’s newspaper right before her mother kissed his cheek good morning at breakfast. Abby, crying, hissing angrily at her father loud enough for Clarke to understand things were not okay. The resentment in Abby’s s eyes as they packed their things and moved to One. The cold, disappointed resignation her mother wore like a cape throughout Jake’s funeral, his half-assed death investigation. Thelonious Jaha, comforting her mother in their living room.

“ _Who_ , Wells?” She hisses, tears stinging her eyes, but she already knows. She has always known.

He shakes his head, backtracking. “It doesn’t matter.”

Clarke swallows thickly. “I think,” She chokes, “I think I know.”

Wells’ face crumples. “I’m sorry.”

“You let me hate you,” She whispers, a small sob ripping out of her. “To protect _her_?”

“To protect _you_ ,” He says quickly, earnestly. “I thought, I don’t know, your father was dead, and your mother - I didn’t want you to hate her when she was all you had left.”

Clarke throws her arms around his neck, furious that now that she knows the truth, they’re both going to die. She sobs into his shoulder, and he takes it, a boulder against the rapids, undeterred, steady. She loves him, and she’s wasted all their time.

“I’m sorry,” She says after she’s cried for what seems like an eternity. “It was easier to hate you.”

He nods, she feels the motion against the crown of her head where he rests his chin. He has always been the understanding one.

“I wish we had more time,” Clarke whispers. “Forgive me.”

She thinks he might not hear her, because it’s silent save for the snow that has begun to fall, muting everything around them, but then he sighs, his breath warm against her ear, and says, “There’s nothing to forgive.”

 

* * *

 

There must not be much action in the arena because Clarke and Wells get nearly a full night’s sleep before they hear the howls. Clarke starts awake first, the agonized animal call chilling her to the bone.

“Wells,” She shakes him awake, sees a flash of grey through the trees. “ _Wells!”_

She drags him to his feet, has him running before he’s even fully awake, and they tumble through the pines, pushing as fast as they can through the dense snow.

The wolves chase them to the river, and before she can come up with a plan, Wells pushes her in. She plunges over the small bluff into the freezing water and surfaces right as the wolves descend. Wells disappears among them. Clarke screams, swallows water, tries to move her frozen limbs as the current carries her away. The roar of the water muffles any chance of hearing a cannon, but Clarke knows.

She floats for what feels like miles down the icy river, and finally manages to kick her stiff limbs to shore. When she crawls onto the gravel, her fingers have turned a strange pale, almost blue color, and her hair is already starting to stiffen, the water freezing it solid.

Clarke is delirious with shock from the cold. Her clothes sag with the weight of ice and water as she trudges to her feet. _Warm_ , she has to get warm. That much she knows. She stumbles through the trees, collapses against a rocky outcropping, fully prepared to succumb to hypothermia. This is how she will die, not a violent, bloody death, but a silent, shameful one. Her mother will be so disappointed.

“Well, well, well,” A voice says.

Clarke opens her impossibly heavy eyelids, and sees Jade, the Career from Four. Jade looks grimly satisfied, flipping the knife in her hand. “I’ll make it quick,” She says.

Jade moves towards her, knife in hand, but then freezes, the knife falling from her hand. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she crumples to the ground.

Behind her stands the girl from Seven, Anya, with a large stone in her hand, bloody from where she hit Jade with it. She glances at Clarke, crouches down, and smashes the rock into the back of Jade’s head once more, twice, then a third time. A cannon fires.

Clarke can barely keep her eyes open. She waits for the blow to the head she knows is coming, and passes out.

 

* * *

 

She wakes up warm, and… with no pants. Clarke bolts upright, fumbling for her hunting knife that isn’t strapped to her thigh. She takes in three things at once: Anya, sitting in a threadbare tank top, the crackling fire between them, the shelter of the rock outcropping over them.

Next, her clothes, her _pants,_ laid over stone near the fire, drying.

Wells, dead.

“You were going to freeze to death,” Anya says quietly. Her voice is smooth, low, softer than her features make her seem. “Had to get off your wet clothes.”

“Thank you,” Clarke rasps, noticing now that the jacket she’s wearing is Anya’s, the shirt too. “Here,” She says, trying to take off the coat.

“Don’t,” Anya says. “The fire is enough.”

They stay there the rest of what Anya tells her is the morning, as Clarke was unconscious through the night. They form a somewhat shaky alliance. Anya doesn’t speak, and Clarke doesn’t mind the quiet. It starts snowing. She wonders for a second if it’s Wells, but then she remembers they’re in an arena, that this is a simulation, and nothing is real.

She shudders and forces back a sob.

“Your friend,” Anya says. “He’s dead?”

“Yes,” Clarke grinds out.

“Sorry,” Anya replies, and it actually sounds sincere.

Anya tells her there are five of them left in the arena. Anya and Clarke, Careers from Two and Three, and a boy from Nine who joined their group. She apparently has been tracking the Careers the entire Games, staying always a few hundred feet behind them, following them in their hunt. She had followed Ali as she scouted the area, and found Clarke.

They walk towards the cornucopia. Clarke lost her bow a long time ago, and Anya has been using whatever weapons she can find. She whittles a spear out of pine with Clarke’s hunting knife, and announces they need to see if the cornucopia has anything to spare.

Anya watches from the trees, her spear propped on her shoulder, while Clarke darts across the ice into the cornucopia. She finds some grenades at the very back, under a tipped over crate. She shoves them carefully in a sack and continues her search. A lonely axe hangs on the wall, small enough to throw but sharp enough to kill. Clarke, oddly, thinks of Bellamy Blake. Looks like she’d follow his advice after all.

Anya shrieks as Clarke exits the mouth of the cornucopia. Clarke spots her at the tree line, engaged with the girl from Two and the boy from Three. There’s a third body on the ground at Anya’s feet.

Clarke sprints, the axe in her hand as Two gleefully slices Anya again with a knife. Anya jabs with her spear, and Two is not fast enough. Anya guts her, the spear going clean through, and Three lands his own spear in her shoulder.

Clarke cries out, watching Anya fall, and Three spins towards Clarke. She stops, watches him run at her, and reaches into the sack. He’s 80 feet away, and she pulls the pin. 50 feet, and she flings the grenade. It hits him in the chest, bounces to his feet. He looks down, looks back at Clarke, and the world bursts into flames.

Clarke is flung backwards, her ears ringing. The smell of burning flesh assaults her nose. _Anya._ She stumbles to her feet and runs wildly through the bloody, charred snow.

Anya is slumped against the tree, gasping. There is a pool of blood surrounding her, and she’s pale, white as the snow; she’s dying.

Clarke moves to hold her, to comfort her to the end, but Anya swats her away with a shaky, bloody hand. She reaches unsteadily to Clarke’s leg, grasps weakly at the knife. Clarke understands: _help me_.

She steels herself, grabs the knife, and brushes Anya’s hair away from her neck. Anya closes her eyes, smiles softly, understanding.

Clarke plunges the knife in, says “Thank you,” in the same breath, and wins.

 

* * *

 

 Clarke’s mother wraps her in a hug that feels strangely sincere. “I knew you would win,” She says into her daughter’s hair instead of, “I love you.”

 

* * *

 

They give her an anti-anxiety pill before the Capitol parade. One of her stylists claims it’ll make her “zen,” so she can focus on enjoying the celebrations. Clarke takes it, but it doesn’t erase Wells, or Anya, from her memory.

President Snow is older than she expected. Up close to him, here on the podium in front of the entire nation, she can clearly see the lines in his face, the wrinkle of his skin, his sunken eyes. He smiles at her, gray teeth flashing.

“Congratulations, Miss Griffin,” He says as he hangs the medal around her neck. He leans closer, so only she can hear him. “And I’m so sorry to hear about your father.”

She blinks, leans back, catches the sympathetic frown on his face and the gleam in his eye that doesn’t match. Later, when she’s not so numb from the drugs, she’ll replay the moment over and over.

Presently, she nods, says “Thank you,” and waves to the crowd as Snow announces her the Victor of the 68th Annual Hunger Games.

 

* * *

 

The victory tour sees her staring into the faces of the families of everyone she killed in the arena, telling them the Capitol thanks them for their contributions, smiling and waving. It’s nearly unbearable. Marcus gives her some pills to help her sleep, but she stops taking them.

Insomnia sees her sitting on the front steps of the condo in District 7’s Victor’s Village at two A.M. Hardly any Victor’s Village in the districts are near capacity, so it’s here she stays during her tour. Augustus and Marcus travel with her, but they are more often than not jovial and unbearable to be around. Clarke hopes she can get where they are some day.

Across the street from her, a light flicks on in an upstairs bedroom. Moments later, the front door opens.

Bellamy Blake is not someone she ever expected to meet, let alone someone with whom she’d have two late-night encounters. He steps onto his front porch, glancing around the barren street, and freezes when he sees her. He strolls slowly across the tiny street, comes to a stop at the bottom of the steps.

He pauses, but eventually sits down next to her an appropriate distance away. He cracks his knuckles and silently offers her a cigarette.

She takes one. “Not going to congratulate me?” She says sarcastically.

He grabs one for himself, lights it, and smiles wryly as he exhales smoke. “Congratulations.”

She leans forward and lets him light her own cigarette. Truthfully, she isn’t a smoker and she never has been, but the nicotine buzz is a welcome one. Besides, there are worse habits.

“Did you watch?” She asks.

“Of course I watched,” He replies, flicking ash onto the ground. “As if I had a choice.”

She hates that his words sting. She hates that even though he is just as angry and powerless and scarred as she is, she wanted him to be rooting for her. But why would he have rooted for her? Because they spent one night talking? His tributes from his district are dead, both by her hands. She hates that she doesn’t know how to say sorry. The misery in his expression turns her stomach to knots. Killers, both of them, and it never stops. It never gets easier. And it never, ever goes away.

He sighs and looks at her, his eyes fierce as if he can read her mind, then, “Clarke, you did everything right.”

“But I didn’t. I’m sorry about Anya,” She says softly, her chest constricting. “And… and the boy.”

“Henry,” Bellamy supplies. “And you tried to save him. It’s not you I’m angry at.”

“I didn’t try to save Anya,” She says. The admission makes her feel a little better, but a little dirtier too. “I killed her.”

He reaches across the space between them and rests his hand on her knee. “If you need forgiveness, I’ll give that to you.”

Her chin trembles, but she has had too many private breakdowns since the Games to lose it in front of a fellow victor, in front of Bellamy. She offers him a shaky smile. “I don’t think you have that authority.”

He squeezes her knee gently, and she lays her hand on top of his and keeps it there.


End file.
